If One Has Not Dined Well
by Akimbo And Askew
Summary: Or, "Five Times John Forced Sherlock to Eat." Easily read as friendship only or early Johnlock.
1. I

_A/N: Playing with the idea of a 5 + 1 for John and Sherlock. Insert pithy disclaimer here. _

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

_Virginia Woolf_

* * *

><p>I. <em>Immediately following "A Study in Pink"<em>

The morning after the incident with the cabbie, John realized with a start that he had yet to see his new flatmate actually _eat_ anything. He'd been trying to clear a spot on the range for breakfast, his growling stomach reminding him that late-night dim sum , while delicious, could not entirely make up for an entire day's worth of skipped meals. Then came the revelation that the mysterious Sherlock must be absolutely _famished_ after this case.

After Sherlock had walked off the crime scene, he had taken John to the Chinese restaurant as promised. Once they were seated, however, Sherlock had declined to order anything.

"Didn't you say you were hungry?" he'd asked.

"What day is today? Wednesday?"

John had nodded.

"Oh, I'm okay for a bit."

"Sherlock! I haven't seen you eat since we met. At least twelve hours, now. For God's sake you need to eat!"

"I don't need to eat, I need to think. The brain is what counts. Everything else is transport."

"You might consider refueling."

"I never eat on a case, John."

"The case is over, you git."

"Seeing Mycroft has put me off my appetite."

John had left things at that. Sherlock was right though – it was a damn fine Chinese restaurant.

Still, at this point it had been at least twenty hours since Sherlock had eaten. Returning his pan to the counter, John padded towards Sherlock's bedroom door.

It took nearly a minute of pounding before his flatmate stumbled to the door. John winced at Sherlock's disheveled state. His curly hair was wilder than usual, sticking up at odd angles, while his eyes were sunken and listless. He'd wrapped his dressing gown around himself haphazardly, clearly unhappy to be out of bed.

"What is it, John?"

"I'm sorry – didn't mean to wake you, Sherlock. I'm just making a fry-up for breakfast, and since you don't eat during cases, I thought you might be a little peckish."

Sherlock nodded, seeming to realize for the first time in days that, perhaps he _ought _to be hungry.

"Sounds lovely. Thank you, John."

The door closed again before John could respond. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen. Though still in his jimjams and dressing gown, his hair was combed and his eyes seemed brighter. Sitting at the table, he pushed an experiment to the far side and pour himself a cup of tea.

"There's coffee, if you need something stronger."

"Tea is fine."

John turned back to his pan, carefully sliding his scrambled eggs onto a plate.

"How do you like your eggs, Sherlock?"

"Poached," he replied, nibbling on a bit of sausage.

_Of course he does._

It wasn't until Sherlock heard John find a pot and fill it with water that he realized that his choice may have been a bit inconvenient for his friend. He felt his appetite drain away.

"It's all right John. I like them fried, as well."

"Nope. Water's boiling; you're getting poached."

He grinned to let Sherlock know that he was only kidding.

Once John had spooned Sherlock's eggs onto a plate and Sherlock had served them each a hearty portion of sausage and toast, John led his flatmate into the sitting room.

They ate in silence, John enjoying the mid-morning sunbeam that fell upon his feet, Sherlock studying him intently.

"You feel guilty," Sherlock said at last.

"How the hell did you deduce that?" John responded, taking a large swig of his coffee.

"Tired, red eyes. You're drinking coffee, not tea. Indicates that you haven't slept well. Granted, it's early to tell, but considering your habit of nodding off around midnight, I'd say that you're an easy, sound sleeper. Military background would suggest that you'll take whatever sleep you can get, whenever you get it. We were home early last night, and you went to bed before one, so work didn't keep you up. It didn't sound as though you had nightmares, indicating that once you fell asleep, you did sleep soundly. Something was keeping you awake last night, and from the way you locked up your pistol – unloaded, safety on, clip in another case, but _uncleaned_, as though you didn't want to touch it more than you absolutely had to – it was the fact that you shot someone last night."

"I've shot people before."

"That's what's bothering you. You're not as anxious as you think you're _supposed _to be. You've been wondering if that makes you dangerous. You said you'd sleep easy and those words kept you up half the night."

"Sherlock, I –"

"You're not dangerous, John."

John cleared his throat, opting to change the subject.

"Can you ever just … turn that off?"

"The deduction? No."

John paused, draining his coffee mug.

"Do you really stop eating on a case?"

"Digestion slows me down."

"I'd think the hunger would be more of a distraction."

"John, I don't often feel hungry. I don't notice it."

"Well, that can't be healthy."

"I eat the little cakes that Mrs. Hudson brings with the tea!" Sherlock responded defensively.

"And what about now, Sherlock? You haven't even touched your eggs!"

"I –" he faltered, looking down at his plate. At the little poached eggs that his friend had gone to so much trouble to make _just for him_.

"I don't have much of an appetite."

"Oh, like hell you don't," John grumbled.

"Really!" Sherlock replied as John leaned toward him. "Really, I hardly ev –"

And suddenly his mouth was too full of egg to finish his sentence. He chewed carefully, yolk running over his lip, as he watched his friend carefully.

Sherlock blinked slowly, wondering what on earth had possessed his new friend to smash poached eggs in his face.

John rolled his eyes and wiped his fingers on a tea towel before helping himself to Sherlock's toast.


	2. II

_A/N: I had intended to stretch out my updates, but I was so chuffed by the response to the first section that I changed my mind. Many thanks for the feedback! _

_(Re-insert pithy disclaimer here)_

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

_Virginia Woolf_

* * *

><p>II. <em>Some time after "The Blind Banker"<em>

John wasn't one for karma or luck, but even he knew better than to utter the words, _"I never get sick."_

In recent weeks, Sherlock had adopted them as a mantrum as first Donovan, then Lestrade, then Molly all fell ill with some particularly terrible strain of influenza. John had taken normal precautions, of course – hand-washing, zinc supplements, and frequent servings of his Grandmother Cavanagh's chicken soup. Meanwhile, Sherlock had continued to scoff at his efforts, all the while muttering, _"I _never _get sick."_

And so John was hardly surprised to find Sherlock slumped over the toilet one morning, moaning about his headache.

"I thought you never got sick," he teased, offering Sherlock a glass of water.

"There were extenuating circumstances," Sherlock replied darkly, bringing the glass to his lips.

"Sip it slowly," John instructed. "If you drink it too fast, you'll never keep it down."

"Silly Watson, at this point there's nothing _to_ keep down."

"Even so – little sips."

Perhaps Sherlock really didn't get sick, at least not often; it would explain why he was behaving like a five-year-old. John remained with Sherlock, perched on the edge of the bathtub, until he finished the glass.

"Better?" he asked.

"A bit."

"Symptoms?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Nausea. Chest congestion. Fever. Aches. Headache. Dizziness."

"When's the last time you ate?"

Sherlock shrugged, resting his head against the wall.

"Well, let's see if you can keep something down."

Sherlock shook his head petulantly.

"Might as well just stay here."

"Don't be daft, Sherlock. You're dehydrated. Drinking water and eating something light will do wonders for you."

"Is that your expert opinion?"

"Yes, in fact. It is. Now, get up."

"Can't."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

Though considerably shorter than Sherlock, John was by far the stronger of them. In one movement, he pulled his friend to his feet and led him back to bed. Once there, Sherlock lay on top of his covers, as though he expected John to tuck him in. For perhaps the hundredth time that morning, John rolled his eyes.

"Get yourself settled. I'll go fix you something."

Sherlock coughed in reply.

Out in the kitchen, John checked his stock pot to be sure that Sherlock hadn't stashed anything in his soup. Satisfied that the pot was free of any human remains, he turned up the burner and waited for it to bubble. Spooning some of the warmed broth into a mug, he returned to Sherlock's bedroom. His flatmate was, of course, still sprawled over his coverlet. Setting the mug on Sherlock's night stand, John pulled and propped him up against the headboard.

"You aren't a child Sherlock," he sighed. "Pull your blanket up."

Grumbling, Sherlock complied. John set the mug in his hand.

"Now, drink this down."

He turned to leave.

"And no poo-pooing my grandmother's recipe," he called over his shoulder.

"I wasn't 'poo-pooing' her recipe, just your mistaken belief that soup is an adequate anti-viral."

"Just eat it, Sherlock!" John called, shutting the door.

Sherlock eyed the mug in his hand carefully; struggling through his congestion, he tried to sniff it.

_Oh, that smells delicious!_

His stomach stopped its acrobatics for a moment to growl in anticipation. Sherlock took a tentative sip. The warmth of the broth spread throughout him, replacing the clammy heat of his fever with a deep, contented flush. As he drained his mug, Sherlock felt his dizziness fade and his nausea ease; even his headache had begun to recede. Clearly, John's Grandmother Cavanagh was on to something.

Dubious anti-viral properties aside, Sherlock finished the pot, mugful by satisfying mugful.

* * *

><p><em>AN2: I should probably mention that while I have a live-in beta reader (thanks, Sweets!), we are both painfully American; thus, my works tend not to be properly Britpicked. I catch obvious things, but I usually miss more nuanced vocabulary. And my spelling/mechanics are American. I really can't shake that one! _


	3. III

_A/N: Again, many thanks and pithy disclaimers._

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

_Virginia Woolf_

* * *

><p>III. <em>Early in "A Scandal in Belgravia"<em>

_This is getting out of hand_.

John was quickly discovering that Sherlock's sense of entitlement knew no bounds.

Or perhaps it wasn't entitlement. Perhaps it was just another one of those things that Sherlock honestly did not understand about adult society. He truly expected John to do things for him that any normal human being would prefer to do by himself. Fishing the phone out of his jacket while he'd been absorbed by his microscope, for example.

Lestrade had warned him that spending any significant amount of time with Sherlock was akin to babysitting a five-year-old.

And he was very, very correct in that deduction.

It was just before Christmas, and as an early gift, Mycroft had sent over a few tissue samples for Sherlock to play with. Ever since they'd arrived, Sherlock had been nearly glued to his microscope at the kitchen table, forcing John and Mrs. Hudson to cook around him, going on four meals in a row now.

Of course, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to actually _eat_ any of the meals he'd impeded. All offers of food were patently ignored.

On this particularly blustery afternoon, John had been out shopping for gifts and drinks for the holiday party he'd planned ("But _why_ do we have to have people over? You're going to make me throw away my experiments!"). His shoulder ached from the cold and the weight of his bags as he struggled inside 221B.

"Oh no, don't worry about me. I don't need any help at all, Sherlock," John grumbled.

"Sarcasm is unbecoming," he replied, barely looking up from his microscope. "Isn't jewelry a bit forward for a month-old relationship?"

John eyed his bag, imagining Jeanette's face when she opened her gift. He'd worked very hard to find something that seemed appropriately romantic.

"Just a bracelet. Nothing fancy."

Sherlock didn't even bother looking up.

"No, the fancy gift is for your sister's new girlfriend, but I cannot wrap my head around why you feel the need to impress a lesbian, John."

"She got Harry into detox, she's keeping her on the wagon, and she still finds time to read my blog," John replied. "I want her to know that she's appreciated by my family."

Sherlock seemed to have lost interest in John's Christmas gifts. Shrugging, John took his bags upstairs to wrap. He returned fifteen minutes later, tucking his parcels on the mantel. Sherlock had not moved from his position, hunched over the microscope.

Eying the falling snow outside the window, John suddenly felt an overwhelming desire for a toastie for tea.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" he grumbled back.

"Do you have a sandwich toaster?"

John could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"It's on the top shelf of the tall cupboard."

_Of course it is._

"And it's broken."

John shook his head as he pulled his footstool into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, why would you keep it if it were broken?"

"If it were in decent repair, why wouldn't I use it?" he shot back, clearly exasperated.

"Because you can't cook, Sherlock."

John climbed onto the footstool to peer into the top shelf of the tall cupboard.

_No, not humiliating in the least._

"I can cook, John. I just choose not to waste my time," Sherlock countered. "And I am partial to a good toastie," he added, mostly to his tissue samples.

"Well, you're in luck," John replied, pulling a box off the shelf and hopping down.

He opened the box and set the toaster on the table beside Sherlock.

"It doesn't seem broken, just dirty. Covered in some kind of –" John pulled one of the toasting plates off of the machine. "– greasy fudge. You want one?"

"Yes, thank you, John," Sherlock muttered.

By the time he had taken the toaster apart, washed it, reassembled it, and made the sandwiches, John was absolutely famished. Sherlock, on the other hand, hardly seemed aware that any time had passed at all. John set two sandwiches on a plate and slid it across the table to his flatmate. Piling the remaining three on his own plate, John returned to the sitting room. He was so looking forward to watching crap telly with his mozzarella and basil toasties.

Not five minutes later, as John was munching on his second sandwich, Sherlock decided that he wanted John's help _right now._

"John. John!" he called from the kitchen.

"What is it? I'm watching telly!"

"I need you in here, John!"

"I'm _watching_ the telly, Sherlock! Can't it wait?"

"No! It cannot wait, John! Besides, they're going to vote Sylvia out of the house."

_No point in finishing now!_

Sighing, John stood and returned to the kitchen. Sherlock was still hunched over his microscope; for thirty seconds, he didn't even seem to notice John.

"Oh! There you are!" he said at last. "Sandwich, please."

John rolled his eyes.

"You're plate is right beside you, Sherlock."

"My hands are full."

John's brows hit his hairline.

_This is getting out of hand!_

"You want me to feed you your sandwich?" he asked slowly.

"Just a few bites, until I get this slide loaded properly."

John was honestly speechless.

"I said _please_, John."

"Oh well, then I have to do it, then," John muttered sarcastically.

Picking up the sandwich, John held it relatively near Sherlock's face as he continued to work. Every few seconds, he would turn and take a small bite of his toastie. As Sherlock nibbled around his fingers, John found himself wondering why he ever, _ever_ agreed to meet this 'high-functioning sociopath' in the first place – and whether the consulting detective had any idea just how _strange_ these kind of requests were.

A few moments later, Sherlock pulled the sandwich out of John's hand, nodding in appreciation.

Of course, if it was so strange, why couldn't John just refuse Sherock?

* * *

><p><em>AN2: This section is based upon Daisy's "Chuck your boyfriend, have a sandwich," speech from the series Spaced, which I highly, highly recommend._


	4. IV

_A/N: And now we move into the more serious side of Sherlock's eating. Please note, this deals with the subject of disordered eating and could be triggering for some._

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

_Virginia Woolf_

* * *

><p>IV. <em>Soon after "The Hounds of Baskerville"<em>

He hadn't eaten since Baskerville. Not since he saw the look on John's face when he'd admitted to locking him the lab. John, ever the good sport, had simply shaken his head and rolled his eyes – a classic sign of his unspoken forgiveness. And yet, although he was forgiven, Sherlock could not seem to lift the weight in his chest.

_Guilt._

He'd tried to delete guilt early in his life; without it, he was free to take what he needed, use the people he required to find his answers.

Not until he met John had those words – _take, use – _made him feel so horrid. Clearly, he'd botched the deletion. And now, consumed with his regret, there was no hope of forgetting this feeling any time in the near future.

The paranoia, the hallucinations, those had scared him; but in time, he had found a solution, and those terrors had faded in the light of day. As of yet, Sherlock could not find a solution for his guilt, and it was destroying him.

The persistent ache in his chest had dampened his already spotty appetite. He had taken no new cases in the fortnight since Baskerville, but he still wasn't eating regularly. On the few occasions that John had fixed him a plate, Sherlock had found himself too paralyzed by remorse to even nibble.

This was John, after all – and he was Sherlock. John always took such good care of his flatmate – shopping for food, cooking meals, earning a steady, if small, paycheck. In return, Sherlock knew that he behaved like a child. He shirked any and all domestic responsibilities. He ignored how his words and actions affected John and Mrs. Hudson. He sacrificed their time and resources to his work.

And still John would fix him a poached egg or a garlic risotto.

He saw clearly just how little he deserved from John; for the first time in his life, this disparity bothered him. It shook him, now.

For weeks, he had subsisted on toast and tea, two things that he could make for himself. He'd grown hungrier and weaker, but he ignored the pangs in some strange act of sacrifice for his friend. Soon, he found himself too weak to take on many experiments, let alone cases. Sherlock had relocated to the sitting room couch, and now spent most days lying on it, drifting in and out of wakefulness.

During a brief moment of lucidity, he overheard John on his mobile, clearly talking to Mycroft.

"Well, I don't know if it's a danger night. He hasn't tried to bum cigarettes from everyone, and I've been keeping an eye on his stash. He's just been lying in the sitting room for days now. I haven't seen him eat."

A long pause.

"I'd hate for it to come to that. Can you just give me one more afternoon? If he doesn't start, I'll –"

Sherlock had drifted back into sleep.

Ending his call with Mycroft, John sank into his chair. He tossed his mobile aside and rubbed his face roughly.

Seventeen days.

It had been nearly seventeen days since Sherlock had eaten a proper meal. John knew for a fact that he hadn't eaten anything on his way out the door with the harpoon. He'd nibbled on biscuits while they'd packed for Dartmoor; then he drank some but ate nothing while on the case. Normally, he stuffed his face during the days immediately following his investigations. This time, he'd had nothing.

John knew that Sherlock had had a terrible shock on the moor, one that had seemed to throw him into some sort of manic fit. Under the circumstances, Sherlock's lack of appetite was not surprising. Two days after they'd come home, John had stocked the pantry with his flatmate's favorite snacks. If he wouldn't eat at mealtimes, perhaps he could be encouraged to graze.

When, after another two days, the food had gone untouched, John had asked Mycroft for Sherlock's medical file. He hated to think of Sherlock as a patient, but it was becoming clearer, day by day, that the man needed a doctor. To his credit, Mycroft sent the files with the barest minimum of sarcasm.

Thumbing through the paperwork, John was able to confirm several of his own theories about Sherlock. For instance, while his immediate family had no significant health problems in their history, Sherlock himself was a premature baby and a sickly child. Page after page of psychiatric intake forms revealed that, since his childhood, people had been trying to find a word for Sherlock Holmes.

Flipping to Sherlock's most recent chart, he had discovered that, officially, his flatmatehad been diagnosed with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. With that in mind, he'd opened his ICD 10 to the appropriate page. Running through the descriptions, John had found that the diagnosis was appropriate, if incomplete.

John had been unable to find specific mentions of disordered eating in Sherlock's files, but he did identify two instances in which Sherlock had been admitted for dehydration and malnutrition. It had seemed that, once in hospital, he'd always begun to eat again, so Mycroft hadn't seen any need to press the issue.

_Idiot._

After John had gathered his data, he'd decided that his best course of action was to simply keep encouraging Sherlock to eat. Like so many times before, John had planned his suppers around Sherlock's palate. Despite John's many offerings of eggs, risotto, toasties, and pasta, his flatmate merely picked at his meals – or flat out refused. John's only proof that Sherlock was consuming anything at all had been their slowly dwindling supply of tea bags and sandwich bread.

When Sherlock had taken to the sitting room couch, John broke down and called Mycroft. The elder Holmes felt that, if hospitalization forced Sherlock to eat, then he simply must be taken to hospital. John worried that the solution couldn't be nearly so straightforward. The hospital would nourish Sherlock, yes, but knowing him, he would resist any remedies the staff might offer for his mental disorders. John hoped that a personal touch might do more good in convincing Sherlock to feed himself again. Reluctantly, Mycroft gave John another six hours to "fix" his brother before he had Sherlock admitted.

Getting up from his chair, John crouched beside Sherlock's face. His skin was yellowed, showing signs of early carotonemia. John realized that six hours was a luxury – he wanted Sherlock up and eating within three. Gently, he shook Sherlock into wakefulness.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, please wake up. It's important."

He stirred weakly, turning his head to face John more completely.

"What is it? Do we have a case?"

John sighed.

"No, Sherlock, there's no case right now. And there aren't going to be any cases for some time. I need to talk to you about something important. Can you sit up?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"All right, then. Sherlock, what have you eaten today?"

"Cuppa and toast."

"How many slices?"

"Two."

John buried his face in his hands for a moment.

"Sherlock, it's nearly tea-time. That isn't nearly enough to have eaten today."

Sherlock looked away.

"I wasn't hungry."

"I know, Sherlock, I know. Here, budge over."

Gingerly, John helped Sherlock sit up a bit, then moved so that he was sitting on the couch with Sherlock's head on his knee.

"Over the past two weeks, Sherlock, how much have you eaten?"

"Total?"

"An average is fine."

"On average...three cups of tea and eight slices of toast per day."

John actually needed a few minutes to calm down before he could continue with him.

"Sherlock, do you recognize that this is unhealthy?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, terrified of upsetting John.

"Yes."

John patted his shoulder.

"I'm sure you've got a reason for not eating. When you're feeling a little better, you can tell me. But right now, your brother has decided that if you haven't had a proper meal by nine o'clock tonight, he's going to admit you to his secret bunker hospital."

"Please," Sherlock murmured.

"Please, what?"

"Please don't let him."

"I won't, Sherlock, if you eat something."

"Still not hungry."

"Look, it doesn't have to be something terribly good for you. Honestly, Sherlock, is there anything at all you find appetizing right now?"

Sherlock thought back to his childhood, to the first time he had tried to delete this crushing guilt. What was it that Mummy used to bring him? Something that Mycroft had never figured out how to make just right. He backtracked through his mind palace until he found it once again.

"Bakewell tart."

"Ready-made all right?"

Sherlock nodded. John smiled.

"I'll call Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock dozed as John asked Mrs. Hudson to pick up a few tarts and bring them upstairs. He could almost hear her reply, "Just this once – I'm not your house keeper."

John allowed Sherlock to sleep until Mrs. Hudson knocked on their door, Bakewell tarts in hand.

"It's open!" he called. Mrs. Hudson let herself in and set the the boxes on their table. Quick as she could, she peeled open the package and passed it to John.

"Sherlock," John said, pulling him into a seated position at last. "Tarts are here."

With a weak nod, Sherlock pulled out a tart and began to nibble on it. John watched with relief as he finished it and licked his fingers.

"Can we have Chinese for dinner?"

"Oh, god yes." John replied.


	5. V

_A/N: I'm touched by the response for the last chapter - thank you, thank you for the reviews and adds. Again, this chapter discusses disordered eating and may triggering for some._

_Also, - pithy disclaimer _

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

_Virginia Woolf_

* * *

><p>V. <em>Just before "The Reichenbach Fall"<em>

Another three weeks had passed since Sherlock's narrowly-avoided hospitalization; since the night of the Bakewell tarts and chicken fried rice, John had become more of a doctor to Sherlock than a friend. As far as John was concerned, that was exactly what Sherlock needed. Since Baskerville, Sherlock had dropped about half a stone, and John had been adamant: no new cases until he'd gained at least 85% of it back. More than once, Sherlock had overheard John on the phone with Lestrade, arguing about Sherlock's "services."

"He's not the bloody police, Greg. _That_ would be _you_!"

John had made lots of other rules that Sherlock had despised. No drugs had been an obvious one, but no nicotine had been a terrible shock.

"Please, John," he'd proclaimed dramatically, rummaging through his desk, "I'm desperate."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. You can't have them – they'll suppress your appetite. Besides, you _were_ supposed to have quit them."

Sherlock could have endured all this, however, if he hadn't also felt so exposed before John. While he was recuperating, John had insisted upon evaluating his vitals each day. Every morning and evening, Sherlock had to allow John to take his pulse and blood pressure and listen to his heart and lungs. And weigh him, of course – that was the most humiliating part of all. Not content with their bathroom scale, John had pinched a medical-grade one from the surgery on his last day before taking a leave of absence to "care for an ill relative."

During his first few days in John's care, Sherlock had allowed his friend to lead him around the house, following his every instruction. John was so shocked by his compliance, he'd nearly driven Sherlock to hospital anyway. Still, by the end of the week, he'd already begun quibbling with John during their daily sessions.

"You never record my vitals," Sherlock had pointed out, arms akimbo.

"Hm?" John replied, placing the stethoscope against Sherlock's chest.

"You measure my pulse and blood pressure, but you only ever write down my weight. Why?"

"It's more for my peace of mind than anything, Sherlock."

He moved the stethoscope to Sherlock's upper back.

"As long as you're improving, I don't see a real need to keep an official record of your vitals. Breathe in."

Sherlock licked his lips, swallowing back the tide of emotions threatening to overtake him.

"And today?"

John gripped Sherlock's wrist gently, two fingers on the pulse point, eyes trained on his watch.

"Seventy-five beats per minute. Bit fast for you, but still within reason."

Reaching into his bag, John pulled out the sphygmomanometer and wrapped the cuff around Sherlock's bicep. He hissed as John placed the cool stethoscope against his arm.

"One-fifteen over eighty. Step up and turn your pockets out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied, proving that he wasn't hiding any weights in his clothing.

John adjusted the balance, noting the morning's number in his notebook.

"And?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"You're still gaining. Up another half pound."

"So, how much longer do I have to put up with all this?"

"However long it takes you to gain back six more pounds," John had admonished him.

Now, two weeks and five pounds later, Sherlock had become more contrary and argumentative. John found lately that he was as pleased with Sherlock as he was irritated with him. As far as the consulting detective was concerned, he'd made enough of a recovery to be allowed to work on cases again; he'd begun sarcastically saluting John and calling him "Captain Watson" whenever he urged Sherlock to step onto the scale.

Despite Sherlock's renewed stubbornness, John remained firm. After watching Sherlock's struggles through Irene Addler's apparent death, he was determined never to let his friend become that ill again. Mycroft's _laissez-faire_ attitude toward his brother sickened him. It was so painfully clear to John that Sherlock needed care. Based upon Sherock's attitude – even now, he was bucking against _boredom_, not his help – John had to conclude that Sherlock even _wanted_ it.

It hadn't escaped his attention that Sherlock remained skittish around him when he cooked; try as he might, John had not yet managed to unravel this puzzle. Each day, he felt that he was dealing with three distinct flatmates. At morning and night, as John collected data, Sherlock acted haughty and put-upon. Between meals, he had thankfully returned to his usual, mercurial self. But each time John stepped into the kitchen to cook, Sherlock retreated to the couch, eyes downcast.

"Sherlock," John called from the refrigerator one afternoon. "Could you give me a hand in here?"

The lanky consulting detective had shuffled quietly to stand beside John. He studied Sherlock for a moment, then passed him a cutting board and knife.

"Just chop up those potatoes," he instructed as he opened the oven to baste the roast.

They worked in silence for a moment, as John considered his next words.

"I've let you get away with a lot, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped chopping and eyed John.

"Oh?"

"Strictly speaking, this episode of yours would have required some quality time with a psychiatrist if you'd gone to hospital. I've pretty much left that alone."

"Well, of course, John. You're not a psychiatrist."

"No, but I could've easily referred you to one, driven you to your appointments, _made_ you go."

Sherlock inspected the edge of his knife.

"Oh."

"Yeah. And I understand why you don't eat during a case. I really do. I hate it, but in general, you've kept yourself in good health. So, I just want to understand why this happened."

Sherlock picked his knife back up and continued with the potatoes, suddenly thrilled that John had given him something to do with his hands while he considered the situation.

"And don't feel like you have to – you know – tell me everything or exactly why or whatnot," John added. "You can be vague. I just want to know how to stop this from happening again."

Another long silence. Then,

"Why do you cook for me, John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John took the potatoes from Sherlock and poured them into his stock pot. He started the burner, brushing his hands through his hair.

"I like to cook. Done it for myself most of my adult life. And at first, I just always made enough for two because you were here. Seemed stupid _not_ to make enough for the both of us."

"But you go out of your way to make foods I like."

"Because you're my friend, Sherlock. It's something I do because you're my friend."

"After – after what happened in the lab, I _felt_ a lot of things."

John regarded him for a long moment, trying to connect the dots Sherlock had left for him.

"You were feeling overwhelmed and you lost your appetite?"

"Yes."

"Are you still feeling overwhelmed?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock sighed, leaning against the table. "I don't usually _feel_ so much. I'm a sociopath; I lack empathy. _Feeling_, John, _caring_ is so foreign to me."

"I forgive you."

"What?"

"I forgive you. For what you did to me in the lab. It was wrong and it made me mad, but I'm not angry anymore. You've punished yourself far too much."

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though he were about to cry. He regarded John slowly, putting a hand on his shoulder. John could almost feel his flatmate trying to deduce his intentions from his face.

"John, I'm – "

The potatoes suddenly began to boil over, and John and Sherlock leaped toward the stove to get the pot off the flame. John was glad for the distraction, for it seemed to snap Sherlock back into his normal self at long last. They finished cooking together, John telling stories of MREs gone horribly awry in Afghanistan, while Sherlock recalled some of Mycroft's ill-conceived attempts in the kitchen. For the first time in a month, they fell back into their usual roles around 221B.


	6. and I

_A/N: You guys! Seriously, YOU GUYS! I'm overwhelmed by the response to the last chapter! Thank you all!_

_Here is the last entry for this 5 + 1 ... Sherlock returns John's favors._

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

_Virginia Woolf_

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><p>and I. <em>One year after "The Reichenbach Fall"<em>

Once he began, Sherlock never bothered to pause or consider his actions. Now he stood, backed against the kitchen counter, staring in horror at the plate of toasties he just made. Feeling panic bubble up through his chest, he ran from the kitchen, into the hall, and out the door of 221B. Once he felt that he had put enough distance between himself and the kitchen, he pulled out his mobile.

Frantically, he dialed Molly's number and waited for her response.

"Hello, this is – "

"Molly you've got to come down here!"

Back at the mortuary, Molly excused herself from her colleagues.

"Come down _where_?" she hissed.

Sherlock paced frantically along Cumberland Street.

"The flat!"

"221B?"

"Yes, of course, you dolt!"

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. A year of close contact with Sherlock had utterly shattered her idolized vision of him.

"Why do you need me to come over to 221B?"

"Because I've done something completely, monumentally stupid! Hurry, Molly!"

Finding an empty classroom, Molly locked herself inside and took a deep breath.

"Sherlock," she asked seriously, "what did you do?"

"I made him a plate of toasties!"

"What?"

"I made John a plate of toasted sandwiches!"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, this is why you can't go near Baker Street. _You're in hiding_!"

"Oh, well spotted, Molly!"

"Sherlock, I'm serious. Why did you do that?"

"I hacked into Mycroft's surveillance on the flat, so I can keep an eye on John and Mrs. Hudson –"

"Because you love it _so_ much when Mycroft does it," Molly muttered.

" – and according to the footage, John hasn't left the flat in days expect to work. And the kitchen cameras haven't been activated, so he hasn't been going in there at all!"

"He probably isn't very hungry, Sherlock. It's...well, it's coming up on a year since you jumped. He's very upset."

"I know! And when I'm upset, John always makes food for me! I needed to make him a toastie! But there weren't any groceries, so I went to Tesco's – "

"_You_ went to Tesco's?"

" – and I bought him groceries. You have to say that it was you! You have to go over there right now and say that you did it!"

Molly sighed and began heading toward the locker room.

"I can be there in twenty-five minutes. When does he get home from the surgery?"

"5:45."

"Sherlock! It's 5:15 now!"

"I did say to hurry!"

As it was, Molly had just enough time to let herself in with the spare key and set down her coat before she heard John heading up the stairs. He seemed to pause at the door, so she called out to let him know she was there.

"Just me!" she said as he pushed open the door.

"Hello, Molly," John mumbled, heading straight for the sofa.

"Sorry to just barge in here. I was worried."

"Thanks, Molly," he replied bitterly.

John wasn't entirely sure when his tiny circle of friends would stop treating him with kid gloves. Sherlock had died nearly a year ago, and they were still behaving as though he was going to follow him straight off St. Bart's.

_Probably because the thought crosses your mind at least once a day_.

Molly stood in the kitchen, regarding John carefully. He seemed exhausted – eyes grey, skin grey, hair shot with grey. His jumpers always seemed more rumpled lately. It seemed as though he'd lost some weight again. Since Sherlock's jump, John hadn't been able to keep to regular mealtimes. He was staring up at the ceiling, looking dead inside.

He had had some good days since Sherlock's disappearance. Molly remembered fondly the birthday party he'd hosted for Mrs. Hudson a few months back. That night, he had seemed to be healing, to be properly grieving. Sherlock's name had come up, of course, but that night, John seemed to want to celebrate his memory. The past few weeks, though, had been almost as bad as the early days.

"I hate to be so forward," Molly said shyly, "but, I did a bit of shopping for you."

John seemed torn between gratitude and annoyance.

"I know, I know, you'd rather be alone."

"No, Molly, it's – "

"No, I understand. We all crowd around you, trying to help you feel better, when you just want to deal with this yourself."

"Do I smell toasties?"

Molly wasn't sure how to handle this change of subject.

"I – yeah. I made you some toasties."

"What kind?"

Molly looked frantically at the the plate.

"Well."

She grabbed the plate and carried it John.

"Why don't you see!"

Sighing, John picked up a sandwich. He bit into it and smiled.

Molly released the breath she was holding.

"Mozzarella and basil? Delicious."

"I'm glad you like them. Well, I'm just going to head home, John."

"Molly," he said, sitting up. "Don't feel as though you have to go. I'm sorry, I've been in a mood all week. I do appreciate this. Really, it's so very kind of you."

Molly sat down beside him on the sofa.

"I know why you're in a mood. And, it doesn't really matter. I mean, it matters, obviously, but what I mean is – I don't care how you grieve. I just want to help."

John finished off the first sandwich and nudged the plate toward her.

"You are helping. You're helping a lot."

They ate in careful quiet; it seemed that Sherlock had made an entire loaf's worth of sandwiches.

"How did you know about the sandwiches?" he asked.

"Oh, Sherlock told me," Molly replied cautiously.

"Really?"

"Yeah, one time, while you were out, he told me that you made very good toasties. I asked for the recipe – always looking for new things to try, me."

"It'll be a year on Thursday," John said suddenly.

"Yeah," Molly replied. "Are you doing anything?"

John leaned back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"I thought I'd take flowers to St. Bart's. Go to the cemetery. Maybe unpack the skull and stick him back where he belongs."

"You want company?"

"Mrs. Hudson is going to the grave with me, but – is it rude to say 'the more, the merrier'?"

Molly laughed.

"Maybe a bit."

Outside, Sherlock leaned against the door, smiling softly. John was eating again.

He was going to be okay.

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><p><em>AN2: I have a companion story in the works that should be making its way on the site soon. Thanks, all! _


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